


Fourth of July (or: The Time Steve Didn't Tell Bucky It Was His Birthday, And They Spent The Night On A Rooftop Celebrating For The Wrong Reasons)

by clokkerfoot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Best Friends, Birthday, Feel-good, Fireworks, Flirting, Fourth of July, Friendship, Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokkerfoot/pseuds/clokkerfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky's first Fourth of July together, set in 1931.</p><p>"Bucky was swinging his feet back and forth between two rungs on the fire escape. He was clinging to the guard poles for dear life—they <em>were</em> ten stories up—but Steve, frail little wonderful Steve who could fall over because of a strong breeze, was sat on the edge of the building without a care in the world, sketching."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourth of July (or: The Time Steve Didn't Tell Bucky It Was His Birthday, And They Spent The Night On A Rooftop Celebrating For The Wrong Reasons)

**Author's Note:**

> bonsoirbirb on Tumblr painted [this gorgeous fanart](http://bonsoirbirb.tumblr.com/post/140563997311/bonsoirbirb-i-justreally-loverooftops) for this fic! Thanks a lot, bae <3
> 
>  

Bucky was swinging his feet back and forth between two rungs on the fire escape. He was clinging to the guard poles for dear life—they  _ were _ ten stories up—but Steve, frail little wonderful Steve who could fall over because of a strong breeze, was sat on the edge of the building without a care in the world, sketching.

“Guess you liked the charcoals?”

“Course I did, Buck,” Steve replied, glancing up at Bucky with a coy smile on his face. It made Bucky’s stomach do crazy things when he saw his friend smiling like that, “But I've been savin’ for my own, and I wish you hadn't spent—”

Bucky released his hold on the guard pole and held up his hand, “They’re a  _ gift _ , Steve. Happy Fourth of July! Ya get new art supplies, fireworks in…” he glanced at his wristwatch—his father's, that lit up in the dark like nothing else Bucky had ever seen—and checked the time, “ten minutes, and you get my charming company for the night. What more couldja want for the most American day of the year?”

Steve smiled harder, if that was even possible, and scratched his little stick of charcoal against the sketchpad in his lap, “Can I get a refund on the company? I’d much prefer Sarah Dierden’s.”

“Keep dreamin’, short stuff. She's got four inches on you, at  _ least _ . Y’could never take her dancin’, and that's all you ever want from a dame ‘cause your ma won’t dance with you anymore.”

“You could take her dancing,” Steve hummed, catching Bucky’s eyes for a brief moment, “I could tag along with one of the other girls, like what we did at the school disco.”

“Didn't you get sick that night?”

“That and every other night,” Steve sighed, mournfully. Bucky laughed, his voice echoing across the rooftops, and kicked his bare heels against the back of the fire escape. Steve glanced up, noticed Bucky swinging his feet, and tutted, “You’re gonna hurt your feet if you do that!”

“When did you turn into my God damn nanny?” Bucky cursed, grinning up at the open sky.

“Watch your mouth, Barnes,” Steve warned. Bucky snorted when he felt a small stone collide with the side of his head.

Steve’d always been the more religious of the two of them, and Bucky forgot how sensitive he was about blaspheming and cursing sometimes. Bucky had gotten a foul potty mouth from the older boys on the docks, where he worked weekends, and Steve hated it.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling innocently at Steve, shrugging his shoulder up against his chin, “What’re you sketching?”

He didn't expect an answer. Steve kept his artwork fairly secret, aside from the landscape paintings he did in school that he always mailed to Bucky. He didn't need to waste his stamps like that, but Steve always got real embarrassed when Bucky mentioned his art, so Bucky figured he was just too nervous to hand things over. 

“Not much. It's pretty ugly.”

Bucky brightened at Steve’s words and crossed his ankles, before saying proudly: “That's an oxymoron.”

“An oxy-what-now?”

“Moron.”

Steve huffed, “Idiot.”

Bucky snorted and scooted across the edge of the building until he was sat beside Steve. Steve turned the sketchbook away from him, ever-secretive, but let him speak. 

“No, no, I wasn't calling  _ you _ a moron. Although you definitely  _ are _ one,” Bucky paused to smile and Steve fixed him with a sharp glare, “I meant an  _ oxy _ moron. We learned about it in school last week. It's where you put two opposite things next to each other, but they kinda end up making sense when they're together, even though they shouldn't. Like ‘pretty ugly’.”

“We’re an oxymoron,” Steve said, absently.

“Whaddya mean by that?”

“We’re total opposites. I'm up here on the roof with you, drawing dumb pictures in a sketchbook, and that's all I ever do, and then you run off and hump sacks of flour on the docks all weekend while I sit here with my stupid charcoals and my stupid broken lungs and—” Steve sucked in a dry breath, and Bucky winced at the poignancy of his timing, “And you shouldn't even want to be around someone like me, but here we are. You're an army brat and I'm a mummy’s boy who hasn't left town in a year and we should  _ not _ be friends, but here we are.”

The fragile stick of charcoal snapped beneath Steve’s fingers. Steve broke out of his sudden heated angst and mumbled a rushed apology. He rubbed at his drawing with the pad of his thumb, wiping away the dark imprint he'd made in the paper, and Bucky finally got to see what Steve had drawn. 

It was Bucky. He had drawn Bucky.

“You drew me,” Bucky said, staring at the perfect charcoal sketch of his own face. 

Steve had drawn other things, too. Bucky's hand, wrapped around the guard pole, bony knuckles jutting out. The scuffs Bucky had gotten the day before, fighting for Steve in a back alley for the thousandth time, were in the picture too, carefully detailed in all their bloody glory.

Below that, Bucky’s ear and the back of his neck took up a corner. Every single hair on his head, even the stray ones that the barber had missed, were in the tiny sketch in the corner of the page. The freckle that Bucky had just behind his ear was there, too.

In the opposite corner, Steve had drawn Bucky’s new shoes on the rooftop a few feet away, shiny and unscuffed but with the laces draped all over the place.

And in the middle of the page was a charcoal replica of Bucky’s face, smiling, laughing, with a smudged and far less carefully detailed background that Bucky knew was the skyline behind him right now. 

“You drew me,” Bucky repeating, tasting the words, “You drew me.”

“‘Course I did,” Steve said brashly. Bucky noticed that Steve was blushing madly, the very tips of his ears red with embarrassment, “If I gotta look at your ugly mug every day I might as well try ‘nd make it look nicer on paper.”

Bucky laughed airily and shook his head, “You're a strange kid, Steve, but you're a damn fine artist.”

Steve stared at him, not even flinching at Bucky’s curse, “You ain't mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I’ve been drawing you without askin’. That's the kinda thing that would tick off a guy like you.”

Bucky waved Steve down, “Nah. I don't mind. After all, I'm the most handsome pal you got. Might as well fill your sketchbooks with my lovely face. It ain't a problem, Stevie.”

Steve’s eyebrows knitted together as he stared at Bucky, unreadable emotions crossing over his face. Bucky exhaled, staring at his friend’s bright blue eyes, wondering what he’d done to deserve Steve Rogers. Steve opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and then the sky exploded.

They both jumped at the sound of a hundred fireworks shooting into the sky all at once, and Bucky grabbed Steve’s wrist. Steve swallowed unusually hard, and Bucky could feel his pulse pounding. It worried him—of course it did; Steve had been in the hospital twice in the nine months since he and Bucky had met in a dingy alley, surrounded by bullies, and every dip in his health made Bucky’s chest hurt—but Bucky was too transfixed by the sparks in the sky to pay much undue attention to Steve’s heart rate.

“I was born durin’ these fireworks,” Steve said, softly, “I always liked them. My ma did, too.”

Bucky froze.

He stared at Steve.

He stared some more.

“Is today your fucking birthday?” Bucky spluttered, staring right at the side of Steve’s face, “Steven Grant Rogers, my best friend and honest companion who I trust very much—is today your birthday and you didn't tell me?”

“Maybe,” Steve whispered, hardly audible over the fireworks in the distance.

“ _ Maybe _ ?” Bucky repeated, voice way too high, “I can't believe you didn't say something! You little shit!”

“I—”

The access door to the roof opened with a bang and Sarah Roger’s voice carried across the rooftop towards them, just louder than the sound of the fireworks, “Steve? James? Are you boys up here?”

Steve grinned at Bucky, saved by the bell, “We’re here, ma.”

Sarah walked towards them, her summer dress flapping delicately in the warm breeze that was drifting through the air, “You boys should come inside. Steve, you’ll catch your death if you stay out here much longer. And James,” she turned her mothering and constantly worried eye to Bucky, “you should know better. Steve’s asthma flares up at this time of year. He shouldn't be outside for too long.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’ll come down soon,” Bucky said, smiling. Sarah nodded, satisfied, then headed back for the open doorway. Bucky raised his voice, “Is there birthday cake for Steve?”

Steve grimaced.

“Why, of course there is,” Sarah replied, her smile evident even in the low light, “Which reminds me, thank you for the charcoals. Such a thoughtful birthday gift. I know Steve won't have thanked you properly, so—”

“No, no, he did,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve’s wrist harder than he needed to, “It’s my pleasure, honestly. Thank you for checking up on us.”

Sarah nodded, smiled warmly, and disappeared back through the access door. Bucky turned to Steve, unsure if he was going to hug or hit his friend.

Steve shrugged, “I was gonna tell you at some point.”

Bucky hit Steve in the side of the head.

Steve rubbed his head with his free hand and scowled, muttering, “You're such a kiss-ass when you talk to my ma.”

“Watch your language,” Bucky imitated Steve mirthlessly, then released his hold on his wrist and swung his legs over the edge of the building. A few moments passed, fireworks shattering the sky, then Bucky draped his arm over Steve’s shoulder, “Happy thirteenth birthday, pal.”

“Thanks. Sorry I didn't tell you.”

“Nah, it's alright,” Bucky said, honestly, “I wouldn't go around tellin’ people today was my birthday.”

“I just didn't want you to get me a gift or anything. I know you're a bit short at the moment—”

“Look who's talking, Mr Five-Foot-Four.”

“Five foot four and a half,” Steve corrected, digging his elbow into Bucky’s ribs, “And I didn't want you to worry about me and my dumb old birthday. That's why I didn't tell you.”

Bucky shrugged, “Got ya a gift anyway. I'm good for it.”

“Who the hell gives Fourth of July gifts, anyway?”

“I do, duh. And I'm going to give you charcoals every year now, just for that.”

“Oh, the horror!”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve."

“Watch your language, Buck.”

The final firework exploded in the distance, sending red, blue and white sparks sailing across the horizon, illuminating the figures of two smiling boys sat on a Brooklyn rooftop.

They were going to be fine, Bucky thought as the light of the fireworks faded away and darkness finally enveloped them. 

They were going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://clokkerfoot.tumblr.com/).


End file.
